‘You seem very comfortable presuming to know what I’m thinking.’
‘Yes, I am. You’re easy to read. You should keep that in mind the next time you meet that Peggy Montford woman. She’s used to playing dumb, but she’s not.’
‘You wouldn’t say that if you knew her politics.’
‘It’s a different sort of smart, Sergeant. Don’t rely on her being stupid.’
‘Well, that’s two dressing-downs in one afternoon. Has this tour of the house been more than just an opportunity to point out what a lousy detective I am?’
‘It’s amazing how close to the surface the petulant little boy is in men. I didn’t say you were a lousy detective.’
‘I believe you said you were a better detective than I am. If you don’t mind me saying so, I’ve yet to see any evidence of that.’
‘Did you look at Serong’s photographs?’
‘Of course.’
‘Did anything strike you?’
‘A great deal struck me. What are you getting at, Constable?’
‘I’m immune to that word being used to put me in my place, Sergeant. Every time I hear it, it’s like a dog barking.’
Joe was wondering how this conversation had taken the turn it had. This wasn’t the same Helen Lord who’d been so reasonable in the morning.
‘That’s not what I was trying to do.’
‘All right. Did you notice anything in particular in the photographs?’
Joe sighed. ‘No.’
‘Serong made sure that he covered the perspective of the killer looking down on the body
and
the perspective of the victim looking up at the killer. When I saw the room, I was sure I was right about something I’d noticed. Xavier Quinn’s eyes were open and staring, but if you stand at his feet, where the killer no doubt stood to observe his handiwork — and I know that’s an assumption that can’t be proved — Xavier Quinn’s eyes aren’t looking at his tormentor. They’re looking to one side, past that person, towards the door. I think he was looking at someone else. There was a second person there, watching him suffer and die, and I think that his last agonised act was to let us know that.’
‘You got all that from a photograph?’
‘You have to be willing to stare hard at the face of a murdered person. I suppose you think that’s unladylike.’
‘You spend a lot of time supposing stuff. Suppose we visit Sheila Draper’s rooms, and then suppose we both go home?’
Helen Lord regretted taking her general sense of frustration out on Joe Sable. He was little more than a boy, she thought, and it wasn’t his fault that he’d had the good fortune to be born with a penis, even if he’d been worried about it betraying him, whatever that meant. She had to admit that he wasn’t in the same league of awfulness as most of the men she worked with.
‘Suppose we have a drink after we see Miss Draper, before we go home? I’ve offended you. I’d like the opportunity to put Humpty Dumpty back together again. Come on, a cup of tea won’t hurt.’
‘All right,’ Joe said. ‘I’ll risk a third dressing-down. Three in one day is my working average.’
-11-
At nine o’clock,
Clarry Brown opened his door to Jones and three others. One of them was a man in his sixties with a mottled pate spread thinly with strands of grey hair. The other two seemed to be about Jones’s age. One was blond; the other, dark with a heavy beard shadow. He was in short sleeves, and his wiry arms were just about the hairiest that Clarry had ever seen. He’d seen photographs of Rudolph Hess, and this bloke resembled him. If his eyes had ever been capable of showing warmth, that ability had been doused long ago. The blond man was overweight, and the first impression he created was that he was simple. It was a simplicity that could be put to use by an unscrupulous handler, and Clarry had already realised that no one was as unscrupulous as Ptolemy Jones.
The three were introduced: the older man was Frank; the dark one, Fred; and the simpleton, Mark. Clarry offered them all beers, which they accepted. None of them made a move to pay him, and beer was expensive. He said nothing, and in saying nothing he felt that his surrender to Jones had been confirmed. He couldn’t extricate himself now and avoid being badly hurt in the attempt. Any one of these four men in his café was capable of beating him senseless without giving it a second thought. They terrified him, and yet he wanted to be one of them. The power to strike fear into another person was a power worth having; it was a power worth learning.
All four of them sat at a table. Jones pulled up a fifth chair and said, ‘Join us.’ Clarry Brown had never experienced such a strange rush of trepidation and joy. He wouldn’t be able to explain it to his wife, and he wouldn’t bother trying. She wouldn’t understand. The only thing she understood was a smack in the mouth.
Clarry Brown didn’t care about politics. He didn’t have a political bone in his body. What he did have was resentment. He hated the Japs and he hated the Nazis — or he thought he did. By the end of the evening he still hated the Japs, but he had to admit that Hitler had a point about the Jews, and what Jones said about the Labor government made sense. Australia had been tricked into fighting the wrong enemy. Communists and Jews, they were the enemy; people who’d fallen for their propaganda about the National Socialists, they were the enemy.
‘The enemy,’ Jones said, ‘is here, all around us, outside that door, and they think they’re safe.’
Jones’s cronies nodded in agreement, and Clarry Brown found himself nodding, too. He’d never had an opinion one way or another about Jews. He’d never met one. But here was Jones telling him that Jew refugees were swamping the country, that everywhere they went they took control. They wanted to dominate the world, and they were succeeding. The Labor government was controlled by Jews. The press was controlled by Jews. Suddenly, all this made sense to Clarry. He was electrified, thrilled. Jones was right. He had to be right. How else could Clarry explain his own excited response? Frank, Fred, and Mark were transformed into companions in arms. In just over ninety minutes, the first meeting of Our Nation was over. Ptolemy Jones had done most of the talking, during which he’d told them about Mitchell Magill. He’d been fierce, intense, rivetting. Frank had sneered at the mention of Australia First. ‘Weak as piss,’ he’d said.
It was decided that the five of them would meet again the following night. They weren’t ready to bring Magill to the café just yet. He needed to stay in his comfortable house in Hawthorn while Our Nation grew strong enough to absorb Magill and his money into its structure. This seemed very clear and simple to Jones, and he made it seem clear and simple to the others.
‘So, tomorrow night,’ he said. He pushed a piece of paper across the table to Clarry. ‘Meanwhile, here’s the address of a Jew house in Carlton. We want you to show us that you’re really with us.’
‘A Jew house?’
‘Fred knows where it is. He’ll take you. Two old Jews live there.’
That was all he said. He gave no instructions, but his meaning was clear. Clarry took the paper and read an address in Arnold Street.
‘It’s about a thirty-minute walk from here,’ Fred said. This was the first thing he’d said all evening. His voice was dull and flat, and each word sounded as though it had left his mouth with the utmost reluctance.
Well, all right
, Clarry thought,
if Fred is
going with me, he can
do whatever needs
to be done
.
They all left the café, and Clarry locked the door. Ptolemy and his blond simpleton, Mark, walked towards Fitzroy. Frank headed west. Fred and Clarry headed north towards Carlton. The streets were dark, and outside the city centre they were deserted. It was still warm, and Clarry could smell fear in his own sweat. Fred lit a cigarette. He didn’t offer one to Clarry.
‘How long have you known Ptolemy Jones?’ Clarry asked.
‘Long enough.’
Fred began to walk faster, forcing Clarry to keep pace. There was no scent of fear coming off Fred. He was sweating, but all Clarry could smell was Lifebuoy soap and cigarette smoke. Fred showed no inclination to catch a tram that rattled past them on Lygon Street. Instead, they passed the cemetery and turned left into Macpherson Street, using back alleys until they reached Pigdon Street. There they turned left and then right into Arnold Street, before stopping outside number 185. It was a semi-detached cottage with a bay window and a picket fence. Clarry was still uncertain about what was expected of him, but Fred seemed very clear — he yanked a picket from the fence and handed it to Clarry. A nail protruded from it.
‘Stand by the door,’ he said quietly, ‘and when one of them opens it, give them a good Our Nation greeting.’
Before Clarry could assimilate what was happening, Fred had bent down into the gutter, picked up a rock, and hurled it at the glass in the bay window. The shattering sound was unnaturally loud. Clarry almost lost his nerve, but Fred stood by the gate, blocking his escape. A few moments passed, and the front door opened a fraction. Clarry put his shoulder against it, and pushed hard. The person behind it was knocked to the ground, and with a strange, animal sound, Clarry raised the paling, ready to bring it down on the person’s head. He struck the whimpering creature once, and then lost his nerve. Again and again, he raised the paling and brought it down, but deliberately struck the floor with it. He somehow knew that one blow had been enough to bind him inextricably to Ptolemy Jones.
Clarry couldn’t see his victim. It was so dark, he was aware only of a dull white — it might have been a nightshirt, or even naked flesh. He beat at the floor until the paling broke, and then he rushed into the street, where Fred grabbed him by the arm and pulled him away from the house. It had only taken a matter of seconds. They stopped in an alley to catch their breaths.
‘I think I might have killed him,’ he lied, ‘if it was a him. It might have been a woman. I don’t know.’
‘It doesn’t matter. It was a Jew.’
Titus wasn’t ready
for bed, and it wasn’t just the heat, although that wasn’t helping. He and Maude were in the living room, which doubled as a dining room, playing two-handed Five Hundred. Neither of them was paying much attention to it.
‘What kind of person cuts off somebody’s head?’ Maude asked.
‘The kind who is beyond the reach of help and reason.’
‘That’s a frightening thought, Titus.’
‘I don’t know that we’re equipped to catch him. We’re seriously under-manned.’
‘What about the female constable?’
‘Helen Lord? She’s more astute than almost all of her colleagues. I’m not happy about putting her in the way of this creature. That’s one of the things that’s bothering me.’
‘Is it bothering her?’
‘Not that she’s letting on.’
‘Leave the bothering to her, Titus. She’s a policewoman, and you’re not her father.’
‘I’m trying not to let the fact that she’s a woman get in the way.’
Maude reached across and took his hand.
‘Try harder,’ she said. The words were spoken gently. ‘You need Helen Lord’s help. She can’t give it if you’re busy being protective.’
‘I’m worried about Joe Sable, too, Maude. I think we’re barking up the wrong tree with Australia First. It’s wasting precious time and resources. I think we’ve been snookered by Intelligence. They’re under-manned, too, and they’ve manoeuvred us into doing their job, using our staff.’
‘To be fair, Titus, it’s the only lead you’ve got.’
‘I’m not convinced by the connection. Maybe I’m losing my touch.’
Maude laughed.
‘It’s been a while since you’ve asked for a reassuring pat on the head. It’s rather nice.’
‘It’s funny. I had a go at Joe this afternoon for a self-pitying whinny that
he
gave, and here I am doing the same thing.’
‘What can I do?’
‘Just exactly what you
are
doing — listening to my self-pitying whinnying, and all the other horrible stuff, too.’
‘Surely I can do more than listen. Unofficially, of course.’
Without the slightest hesitation, Titus began to fill Maude in on the progress of the investigation.
‘Helen Lord went to both murder scenes this afternoon with Joe. She telephoned me when she got home, and she had an interesting observation to make. I’m going to talk to Martin Serong about it tomorrow, although I know he’ll say he just takes the photographs, and that interpreting them is our job.’
‘Can I see the photographs?’
‘All my instincts are against it, as are the regulations.’
‘Good. I’ll come to your office tomorrow morning.’
It wouldn’t be the first time that Maude was to have a look at horrifying photographs that Serong had taken at the scene of a murder. Maude assumed these pictures of the Quinn killings were particularly ghastly, and she assured Titus that after all these years she was beyond squeamishness.
‘I need to see what you see,’ she said. ‘I hate the idea that you have things in your head that are too awful to confide.’
‘If I didn’t have you, Maude, I don’t think I could do my job. I’m interested to know if you notice what Helen Lord did.’
‘Come to bed, Titus.’
‘There is something I’d like you to do for me, after you’ve looked at the photographs.’